Incomplete
by FangirlWritesThings
Summary: There is no love like the love that lasts forever... Dorothy has been seeking love from that one man for quite a while. What happens when Fate crosses their paths again... yet something's not the same? (Steve Rogers/OC) (Civil War doesn't happen lol)
1. Chapter 1

Why did I think any of this would be a good idea?

Why did I think that, _oh, it'll be fine, you'll do random things and then live your sad life_. Why would I think that there would even _be_ some sad life to live after all this?

… Maybe, just _maybe_ , had I stayed at home that faithful night and not taken the chance to run into the bustling streets of Brooklyn, then this would've gone differently. Maybe, if I'd stayed at home in my ratty apartment, ceased my wishful thinking that'd get me nowhere like always, continued on with my life and perhaps relented in my naive ideas… maybe then, I would've not been dragged into this mess I currently called my life.

Maybe… maybe if I had thought differently back in the forties, then this entire disaster wouldn't have happened.

* * *

I sat at the ledge of the only window in my room when I heard a gentle, recognisable knock on the wooden door. I wasn't bothered to turn around; I already knew who it was, anyway. Only Bucky had a distinct knock like that — one that the two of us had invented for the sake of friendship. Also, I was mostly reluctant to ever let anyone else into my room (I had — definitely still have — unbelievable trust issues with others), but with Bucky, it felt like it was fine. It felt like all my troubles would be okay, and that it was fine for him to see my anguish. He was caring enough to cheer me up like the cheesy bastard he was, anyway.

Quietly, I called, "Come in," knowing Bucky heard me either way because like always, he opened the door a slight bit, whether I let him come in or not. It may or may not have occasionally caused trouble, but it didn't matter that much to me.

The door creaked a bit louder this time, letting me know that Bucky had fully pushed the door open. I didn't bother turning away from my spot at the window, too mesmerised with what was happening outside the window. Outside, where being a bird with feathers that could carry me away, or being a gentle butterfly that would be caressed in the soft breeze of spring… outside, it felt like if I was anything but a human, I'd be better off than I was now.

"Hey, dollface," Bucky casually said, knowing that something was bothering me from the moment I didn't turn around. As often as I had that habit, there was an entire aura around me that gave off that I wasn't content. I didn't bother shooting back a retort to one of my best — and only — friends, knowing that he called almost every girl that breathed and wore a dress 'doll' or 'dollface'. It was just how he was. When I didn't respond, he continued, "Penny for your thoughts?"

I turned my head to respond to him this time, halfway through taking a breath, when I saw what he donned. The breath I'd been trying to catch was knocked out of my lungs and my heart dropped to my shoes. He was… he was wearing—

"'Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th," he commented with a sly grin, tipping his hat at me in a graceful fashion. He chuckled as I stared open-mouthed at him, commenting, "It's a great title, innit?"

I tried my best not to keel over, glad that I was sitting down — if I weren't, I would've fallen to the floor by now, in some state of shellshocked panic that would leave me muttering pleads for him not to leave and drown any hope I had. Because that's how shocked I was. My best friend for… pretty much my entire life was leaving me, most likely never to return. And honestly, that sucked so much that it felt like a hundred blows being delivered to my stomach, ten thousand slaps and fifty kicks to my face all at the same time.

… But maybe… maybe that'd give me a shot at pursuing a small crush I had on a certain other best friend.

(Yes, I realise I'm being unreasonably morbid and the biggest ass in the world by celebrating someone's death through trying to get together with their best friend. I get it, I suck.)

Okay, _maybe_ Bucky was unreasonably handsome, with his rugged looks, baby blue eyes and warm personality. But in theory, so was his best friend, Steve.

Steve, who let himself get beaten up just because he refused to have other women be called disrespectful things on the streets. Steve, who's dealt with social exclusion because of his small body and constant illnesses pretty much his entire life. Steve, who could crack a joke at the worst of times and make random dorks — like Bucky and I — laugh ourselves to tears.

 _That_ was the Steve that I had grown to have a small crush on. And no, he might not be that strong, handsome guy his best friend was, but he was genuine, he was good, and he had a kind-hearted personality. Too bad that people constantly oversaw that on him, that people constantly judged others based on looks and riches and how many dates they've had.

Too bad that Steve wasn't more celebrated.

And yes, I'll admit that I'd pondered these things at night more than I actually should, and I couldn't help but slowly fall in love with the short punk that had become one of my best friends. It had been like the little guy from Brooklyn had snuck his way into my heart at the least expected time, stealing it and making it unable for me to give my heart to anyone else. And _that_ was saying something.

… It may also be the reason for my strangely reluctant behaviour to go on a date with anyone, but oh well.

Settling back into reality, I swallowed roughly before plastering a fake smile on my face and hopping off the ledge of the window, feet landing on the ground. "It looks lovely," I commented, a slightly dull pang in my voice. I wondered whether he'd already told the news to Steve and how on Earth the skinny punk would deal with the fact that Bucky was leaving us.

Clenching my hands together to _get it together, Dorothy_ , I inquired, "You tell Steve yet?"

Bucky sighed, lowering his head. I could see the fear imprinted in his eyes, even if he refused to meet mine. I pondered how Bucky would deal with all of this — he was so young to be going to war, it just didn't feel… _fair_.

 _The world is never a fair place, Dorothy._

Then, Bucky raised his head again, jaw clenching — a clear sign that he was trying to compose himself before he broke down. "N-no. I was actually planning to find him at the pictures and tell him then."

I nodded wistfully, dragging my palms along the soft fabric of my dress. It was my newest — and currently last — dress I could afford without facing starvation, buying it from the money I'd saved up from helping the old couple upstairs and occasionally giving a hand at the pharmacy down the road.

After a few beats of terse silence, Bucky offered, "You can join me, if you'd like? I was planning to take the two of you and a few dolls out to the Stark Expo, anyway."

I smirked at him, chuckling, " _You_ got a date for Steve?"

"Yes," he replied, without missing a beat. I shook my head, ash blonde hair falling into my face. I brushed it out of the way.

"Like, _really_ a date for Steve?"

Silence. I giggled, shaking my head at Bucky as I walked past him and out the doorway of my room. "You promising that you'll dance with both of them later does not apply as getting Steve a date."

He sighed playfully behind me as I fetched my coat from the hanger and pulled it on, setting a note for later on my counter. Bucky followed me all the way to my door while I jingled my keys in my left hand.

"Let's go," I muttered as I opened the door, the pair of us exiting the apartment before I proceeded to lock the door. For some reason, I had a bad feeling about Steve's state, and I knew something was off when I arrived at the pictures and didn't see Steve at the entrance, just like Bucky said he'd promised to do.

Sudden dread set into my stomach, my grey eyes scanning the premise we were on. Just as I did so, I could hear a yell, and I frantically looked for the source of it. Bucky frowned next to me, then walked just next to theatre, with me following him as a worried frown settled on my face.

Just as he was about the go down the alley, he placed a hand on my shoulder, blue eyes boring into mine as he said, "Wait here for a sec," before turning around and walking down the small road.

I turned around, trying my best not to feel pathetic. _How great. Once again, Dorothy can do nothing but watch Bucky and Steve be buddies like the third wheel she was_. And honestly, it was _true_. I was a pain in the butt. An outcast, completely irrelevant to this friendship. Yet I tagged along like the fickle child I was, stubbornly refusing to find someone, _anyone_ that might not be bothered with my presence. Instead, I let myself be consumed by the filthy lie that I was actually _wanted_ by the two boys.

Sighing, I heard a yell from Bucky, "Pick on someone your own size," and couldn't help but fondly smile at the jerk. Somehow, Bucky always had the best sayings, wisest words and heroic deeds of all three of us. He was like… like the brightest star in our little universe, and Steve was the raging fire of a shooting star. Meanwhile, I was the odd comet out, floating with no use and just hoping that someday, someone might help me.

But I was kidding myself. No one will ever help me. I learned so soon enough.

Within seconds, I could hear loud, thumping footsteps stumbling out of the alleyway, a man about six feet tall stumbling past. When he spotted me, he tilted his head to me, glaring at me with a cold frown. Then, he spat at me feet and snapped, "Stupid little b—"

"Get outta here," Bucky called as he strutted towards us, his glare intense and piercing the asshole of a guy. The man straightened, and as he turned away, he gave me one last menacing smirk and mouthed, 'You're next'. A chill ran down my spine at the thought that this guy _hit women_. Hell, it was bad enough that he dared hit Stevie and stuff— him abusing others in general was a disgusting, vile thought.

God, to think that by now, I was far worse than that one bully Steve had dealt with back then.

Eventually, I turned around to face both Bucky and Steve — the latter of whom was stumbling out of the alleyway with a slightly split lip and a small, proud grin on the doofus' face. Well, if there's one thing that's never changed about Steve, it was that he was always proud to get in a fight.

He grinned at me, his head tilted up a bit (I was taller than him — though only by a tiny bit, I was actually pretty short compared to other girls around me) to look me in the eyes. A small twinkle shone in them, but by the eye contact we exchanged, I could tell his whole world was falling apart by the news Bucky had brought us.

"God, Stevie," I frowned, glaring at his split lip and settling my hands on my hips. "With the amount of times you get your face beaten in, it might be worth buying you a metal skull."

Steve laughed as Bucky commented with a smirk, "Don't think he'd need that, considering the punk's thickheaded as he is." I let out a laugh, agreeing with what Bucky said. Seriously, if there was Steve's stubbornness and a will, there was most definitely a way somewhere. It might also be why Steve's already tried signing up for the army _three times_.

I usually didn't know what to scold him for first — the fact that he was genuinely volunteering to go _die_ in some foreign country (he'd always tell me, "I'm fighting for the good of our country, Dory," as we'd chuck stones into the lake from the park. "There are men laying down there lives. I might as well do the right thing and die a hero." Too bad he didn't know that he already _was_ a hero to me.), or the fact that if the authorities caught him falsifying and lying on enlistment forms, he'd be toast.

The three of us began walking, and I wished it wasn't Bucky's last night here. I wished that he didn't even have to go to war in the first place. I wished that war didn't even exist and humans would just live their short lives in peace, not stirring up conflict and waving guns and grenades and the like.

But all of that was wishful thinking — pretending that Steve, Bucky and I could live without a war in our lives.

We scuffled the streets of Brooklyn until it was evening, and when we _finally_ arrived where Bucky was leading us all along (the amount of times I had asked, "Are we there yet?" As we were walking might have made Bucky go temporarily insane, but oh well) — the Stark Expo.

The Stark Expo — named after Howard Stark, genius inventor and scientist of our era — was lively and full of new things. Stark Industry had this annual event to show off gizmos and gadgets and the like, each year better than the last. And as little as Bucky admitted it — he was sort of a dork and really enjoyed going here to see all the different inventions.

We entered the grand Expo, the lights illuminating everything in a nice fashion. I peered out towards a large stage — many people seemed to be gathering there. But before we went there, I overheard a snippet of Steve and Bucky's conversation they'd currently been having — it was about Steve being sad that he couldn't go to war, and Bucky countering that he was about the be the last eligible man in New York, with three and a half million women. The thought of Steve going around like _that_ — which I'm pretty sure, to this day, he'd never do — made my heart beat faster and go at a nervous pace.

Then, I heard Steve mumble to Bucky, "What did you tell her about me?"

I tilted my head in their direction, and Bucky merely winked at me in a playful manner before replying to Steve, "Only the good stuff."

And then, Bucky waved to two girls I knew — Connie and Bonnie.

In all honesty, both girls were… okay-ish. Connie was the brunette of the duo, extremely sweet and petite — in a nice way, not like me. If I ever compared myself to her, I felt so inept and stupid, like I was some gangly small skeleton compared to her beautiful physique. She was, however, always nice to me, so I couldn't hold anything against her.

Bonnie was also nice, the blonde of the duo. As nice as she was, she could be rather mean sometimes, and she'd almost always have some remark about me looking like — and I quote — 'I just appeared from ashes'. In my defence, I can't help it if I have ash blonde hair _and_ grey eyes. As much as I liked the both, Bonnie could be a bit… mean.

Which was one reason of why I was afraid of Steve being set up with her.

For starters, she always talked bad about him. How he was so tiny, how no one would ever go out with him — usually whenever I overheard her talking crap like that, I would feel my blood boil and juggle with the option of going over to her and giving her a good smack on the head for talking about Steve like that. Steve was a gentleman, and he didn't deserve to be walked all over by girls like Bonnie.

And then… there was my rather developing crush that I had for him, making me protective of him whenever someone treated him bad. He was also protective — in a platonic way, though, which kinda sucked for me — always being there for me if I got insulted by some ninny or some jerk walking past.

You see, I was born and named Dorothy just because the name was rather nice. My mother died in labor, so my father got to raising me and just named me that in memory of his great-grandmother. But then, the movie _The Wizard of Oz_ came out into the pictures, and that's when the bullying started. People would giggle and snicker at my name, ask me why my hair isn't brown, things like that. I couldn't even wear blue dresses anymore because whenever I did, someone would start singing (off-key) the song ' _Somewhere Over The Rainbow_ '.

This was also a reason why I refused to go out much, knowing that someone would tease my name and I'd fall into a lapse of being picked on. I couldn't do much about it — after all, I'm not just gonna change my name because people are making fun of me about it — so I suffered in silence.

Eventually, Steve had caught wind of the situation, and things escalated. He told the bullies to 'get lost' and took every beat-up he received like a champ. I, in exchange, dealt with his wounds afterwards, took care of him when he was sick, and was there when he needed help with something.

Soon, we walked to the stage, which was radiant and crowded. Bucky and Connie stood at the front, Bonnie stood beside Bucky, and Steve was stuck behind Bonnie. I, on the other hand, let a few people walk in front of me, distancing myself with the small group. After all, I didn't fit in. There wasn't a third gentleman there to take care of me, to give me loving smiles and go dancing with me afterwards. Once again, I was the odd comet out, floating around awkwardly as I tried to find my place in this friendship — and failed again and again.

The show started, and Howard Stark himself stood on stage, smiling at the audience brightly and holding the microphone in his hand. His voice resonated through the speakers as he began, " _Ladies and gentlemen, what if I told you that in just a few short years, your automobile won't even have to touch the ground at all_."

Following that, the scantily-clad female helpers removed the wheels from the red car set on the stage and carried the tired away. Howard winked at the ladies before turning back to address the audience. " _With Stark robotic reversion technology, you'll be able to do just that_."

As Howard pressed a button on the stage, I saw Steve staring anywhere but the stage. He was gazing at a poster that encouraged young men to go to war, the longing shining in his baby blues. I almost sighed, being able to practically read Steve's mind and what he _really_ wanted to be doing instead of some double date where his date rejected him, anyways. Then, without another thought, Steve had snuck off, and my mouth dropped open, eyes trailing after him. _Good God, he was gonna get himself killed_.

I barely registered the hovering car on stage until it dropped down and caused a large _thump_ , snapping my eyes back to the stage. The car was back on the ground, and Howard chuckled nervously before he said, " _I, uh, did say a few years, didn't I?_ "

The audience laughed and I couldn't help but let out a few giggles as well. Then, I heard the muffle of Bucky saying something through the laughter as he turned around, his eyes trailing around before he ceased to talk. His eyebrows furrowed as he seemingly looked for Steve. _Yet he didn't even notice me_. I tried not to hurt, I swear. I know I was being a whiny child, constantly seeking attention. But hey, everyone has flaws and I happen to have both self-depreciation and attention-seeking on my (long) list of flaws.

Bucky walked off, and I felt an urge to follow him — so I did. Hell, Bucky acted like he had a tracker implanted in Steve (maybe it was just some weird sense that he constantly knew where Steve was at all times? Who knows), so I bet that if I followed Bucky, we'd both eventually stumble upon Steve.

Eventually, we did exactly that, Bucky finding Steve at one of the enlistment booths. Before he could go scold Steve, I rushed to him and stopped him. He glanced at me with slight confusion, and I muttered (with a slightly sad tinge in my voice that I was trying my best to hide), "He's really gonna leave, isn't he?"

Bucky sighed, and I could see the deep pools of regret in his blue eyes. They looked almost like Steve's eyes. "I don't know, Dory," he frowned, taking a quick peek to make sure Steve hadn't run somewhere else. "But I need you to promise me this—"

He turned fully this time, placing both of his hands on my shoulders. His expression was solemn, and it was nothing like cheerful Bucky that I usually knew. He then said with a soft voice, "Take care of him when I can't. As reckless as Steve is, sometimes he's weaker than he lets on. Be the strong support for him. Go around town with him. No idiot wants to hit a guy when he's with a lady, so if you're with him, he'll be fine. Please… Be strong w-when the punk can't put up a charade."

I almost felt tears prickle my eyes, and I blinked them out of my stormy-grey orbs, not daring to shed a tear right now. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nodded and gave Bucky a hug, whispering so he could hear, "You take care too, you big jerk."

We hugged for a while before I let him go, and he tipped his hat at me as he said, "You know it, Dory."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at Bucky, but I waved him goodbye anyway. Bucky made his way to the booth where Steve was, and I couldn't help but sneak a glance at Steve. His usually-light eyes looked a bit sad now, like he _wanted_ to do something for his country but _couldn't_. The thought made me sad — he would rather do something that thousands — hell, millions — of people could adore him for by sacrificing his life than to stay, have new opportunities, and maybe…

Maybe be with me.

And yes, like I said, I'm a selfish butthead and I should be whacked upside the head for thinking about possible (unlikely) love sprouting between me and Steve. But to hell with it. To hell with my entire sucky life which ended when I didn't have a mother, my father dying when I was sixteen, me constantly being teased for my curse of a name, me having unreachable crushes, stupid dreams, wishful thoughts… to hell with all of it.

Suddenly, I felt some sort of sick, angry fizz in my veins, like I was a storm that was about to start and create a wrath of nature. It felt terrifying, yet energising. And maybe it was just my impulses back then, but I turned around and ran.

I ran just as the rain started falling, small droplets falling on my fair skin. Just as a new, jazzy song began playing in the distance, the tune making my head spin. Just as I felt tears blur my eyes as I began running down the half-empty — yet still full — streets of Brooklyn, waves of anguish beating at my heart as I couldn't help but feel pain for my selfish, selfish life. It was like someone hollowing me out, like all my emotions were being torn out of my body. I don't even know whether it was painful to have all this happen or relieving that I could no longer feel pain for this pathetic world.

And just as I heard the crash of a cymbal, someone knocked me into an alleyway with an incredible force, my body flying—

And then crashing. My hands hurt, my side hurt. My beautiful white dress with black polka dots that had taken _so long_ to save up for was ruined, small splotches of dirty water visible on it. Tears ran down my cheeks in renewed pain, this time physical.

The street lamp above me flickered. I heard slow, calculated footsteps from my right, though my curtain of hair obscured my view. Then, the walking stopped and I sensed someone right by my side, standing and doing nothing as I half-laid on the ground in slight pain and confusion.

And the last thing I properly felt was something blunt hitting the side of my head, knocking me into an abyss of darkness and making me disappear from the streets of Brooklyn.


	2. Chapter 2

**(I'm such an idiot I forgot to do an Author's note last chapter what even)**

 **Hello, everyone! So this is my new Steve Rogers/OC story called 'Incomplete'!... And before you get too excited, these everyday updates aren't gonna happen that much (sorry). I just have these first three chapters already saved, so I'm just getting a proper layout of the story started. Then, I'm gonna keep updating about every Sunday. I'll try my best to keep the schedule up, but we'll see how it goes.**

 **Anyway, I'd already like to thank Anna (Guest) and Guest for leaving a review on the last chapter! Thanks so much guys! Now, I'm gonna go and let you enjoy the story. Feel free to leave a review to let me know how you think it went! :)**

* * *

It's too cold.

There is something cold pressing at my right cheek— actually, no, my entire right side. That's the first thing I felt when I came to. Cold. Then, a headache that sprouted from the top of my head and travelled downwards, making my bones heavier and my muscles ache.

I… It's too cold.

Slowly, I cracked one eye open, squinting when the light from the world outside my mind blinded me. I blinked a few times, before daring to crack both eyes open to try and orientate myself somehow in this strange, eerily silent place. All I heard was distant clangs — the first one making me flinch and pull my shoulders together — and the soft _plop_ of water dripping. Other than that, it was like I was all alone in this weird… place, with not a single soul here.

Of course, I knew I was lying to myself by thinking so.

I managed to let out a small, wheezy groan under my breath, my grey eyes having adjusted to the fluorescent light from this… room-thing. Finding feeling in my hands again, I propped myself up a bit, my head pounding with a headache and my world half-drowsy. Listen, I know I've asked this question like… three times before (or at least implied it), but _where the hell was I_?

I dared tilt my head, curious eyes exploring this room. Well, for starters, it looked like a prison. Cool, white tiles layered over the walls and floor of the prison, occasional stains of red (probably blood, the thought sickened me) making the room look less eerie and surreal. Or was it that it made the room _more_ eerie and surreal?

… I couldn't be bothered to think about it in case my stomach was gonna unexpectedly get weak.

To my left was a heavy-looking, stainless-steel door. It had a tiny, glass window near the top, and I could barely make out the dark walls from the hallway outside.

Brushing my ash blonde hair out of my eyes, I felt for the painful spot on my head and winced when I stumbled upon it, cringing. Well, that's definitely a bruise by now, meaning… I've been here for several hours.

Well, _crud_. That woke me up well enough.

My eyes widened and my muscles were pulled back in motion, heart finally thumping at a steady pace. I got to my shaky feet (I felt like a deer that was taking its first steps, ugh) and leaned against the wall, hating yet relishing the cold it seeped into my palms. _At least I was still alive_. I stumbled around the small prison which contained nothing except for blank white tiles (occasionally splattered with blood — God, I'm feeling shivers crawl up my neck) and that stupid steel door. An unshakable feeling of dread settled on my shoulders, and my heart beat at a slightly faster pace.

I was still wearing my black-and-white dress. It was stained and no longer felt that soft, with splatters of muddy water having dried gross tracks along the once-pure fabric I donned. Trying to puzzle everything together… it took a lot of energy. My head ached, and all I could make out so far was that I've been out long enough for someone — whoever it may have been — to have brought me here into this cell and the mud had dried on my dress, yet not _that_ long based on that I was still alive and wearing the dress I'd worn before.

Sighing, I was about to shut my eyes when I heard a loud clang, this one not as distant as the previous ones. My shoulders tensed and I cringed at the clang vibrating dully through my head. It felt as if my instincts were shouting at me to hide, cower in fear, but I could do nothing except blink and stand frozen, as if I'd been glued to the ground.

Then, there was a small rattle of metal audible outside the steel door — the sound reminded me of my own keys jingling — before the cell was unlocked and the door swung open, its thick frame looking as if it seemed to intimidate me. I stood in the corner, my eyes fixed on the door so much that I did not notice the short, stubby man entering my prison.

Only when he cleared his throat did I react, my eyes snapping to his, yet the rest of my body refusing to move an inch. Instead, I let my eyes trail over his form, noting any noteworthy details in my mind.

The man was short and plump, almost my height (except a bit shorter). He donned round glasses and had fraying bits of hair. His eyes were squinty and cold, and his pristine lab coat gave away that he was a scientist of some sort.

After a momentary silence of eyeing one another, the fat man began, "Good morning, Fräulein. Or shall I saw, afternoon."

I glared at the chubby male in silence, refusing to say anything in fear that my voice would be weak and raspy after not using it for a while. When he realised that I would not be speaking anytime soon, he continued, "My name is Doctor Arnim Zola, and I will be your supervisor in the foreseeable future."

The man had a slight accent. I suspected German. But now, I had more questions. Supervisor? For what? Why was I even here in the first place?

"I know you have many questions," the man continued, fiddling with his glasses. Perhaps he was anxious to leave. Perhaps he had an angry and constantly displeased boss that he served. Perhaps we was constantly anxious. "I can see it in your eyes."

Finally, I found the courage to speak and as I followed his every movement, I cautiously inquired, "Where am I?"

The doctor merely chuckled. Only it didn't sound like a chuckle, it sounded like he was choking on poison. I felt repulsed by this man, no matter how small — he had a dark, grim aura surrounding him, the unpleasant aura being thick enough to choke my breath and make me feel icky all over.

"That is classified," he replied coolly, glancing around the prison with a sneer. Like he himself was disgusted with the blood spots on the wall, like he was repulsed by being in my presence.

Well, if he didn't want me here, he shouldn't have had me brought here. _Idiot_.

"All you can know for now," he continued, adjusting his lab coat, "Is that you are very valuable to us. We have been watching you for a long time, Miss Dorothy, and we are certain that failure will not be an option for you."

I felt an eerie feeling in my stomach, my heart rattling in my chest and my skin getting cold. How did he know my name? What did he mean, "failure was not an option"? And _why in the everloving hells of death had they been watching me and how_?

Terror — and probably adrenaline — sunk into me and I lashed out, running forward and shoving the chubby scientist — God, I'm gonna have to remember the name Zola, I couldn't even remember the name of my maths teacher I had for a whole year — to the side. I lunged for the open door—

Only to be met with the tall, statuesque form of a man wearing everything black. I mean, _everything_. I couldn't even see his face, which was obscured by large black goggles and a form of mask. It looked…

It looked like a robot was standing in front of me.

 _This wasn't real_. I flinched and stumbled back a bit as he glared down at me (well, at least it looked like that the way he tilted his head at me, it wasn't like I could see his eyes and check whether he's _actually_ glaring or not). He, on the other hand, took a step forward, his large form obscuring my view from the doorway. I was trapped, and I couldn't get out.

I couldn't take care of Steve like Bucky had promised me to.

That's when it hit me like a boulder— _Steve_. I'd left Steve to his own devices in Brooklyn and am now God-knows-where, I probably missed Bucky shipping off to England, Steve's probably worrying himself to death and getting an asthma attack and I can't be there to help him in any way—

I heard a _tsk, tsk, tsk_ behind me, but I couldn't react to it. My face felt numb and my body felt like I was on the verge of collapsing. I felt like my breath was stuck in my throat and my heart was hammering holes into my chest.

"Now, now, Fräulein," the scientist-man (Damnit, Dorothy. His name is Arnim Zola, not scientist-man.) chided behind me. "We do not disrespect people superior to oneself."

I focused on his words, but then again, I didn't. I couldn't. I was in panic. Steve was somewhere out there, miles — maybe even worlds — away from me, and I couldn't help him. Bucky couldn't just _stay_ and help Steve out while I wasn't there, Bucky was off to fight a war and die a hero while guns blazed. Steve, on the other hand, was in Brooklyn, probably has no one to take care of him— Oh God, what if he gets into another fight? Bucky can't defend him this time…

All these worrying thoughts spiralled in my mind so much that only when the robot guard backhanded me across the face — _wham_ , and I was on the floor — did I realise that the Zola-guy had been talking to me.

My face hurt. I was sprawled across the floor, warm blood in my mouth and tears in the corners of my eyes. _Ow, ow, ow_. My left cheek stung, and it reminded me of the time Bucky had dared me to climb a tree in the park and I'd fallen off the tree and almost flat on my face, my cheek bruising horridly the next day and Bucky apologising over and over while Steve yelled at him for being a nincompoop.

But this was far worse. I felt like someone had slapped a baseball bat across my face, and it hurt so much — yet I couldn't stop the pain.

I felt a shoe roughly pressing into my back, making me cough up the small amount of blood. I heard an icy voice above me hiss, " _Listen to your superiors at all times, Fräulein. Only speak when spoken to. Follow orders as asked_."

He dug his heel into my back, and I let out a small wheeze, a tear rolling down my cheek. When I dared to open my eyes again, I could see blood — _my blood_ — staining a tile in front of me.

I felt pathetic. I felt shame. I wasn't being strong for Bucky, I wasn't being strong for Stevie, I was being _weak_ , a stupid damsel in distress like always. The thought almost made me scream in frustration— had I not heard the next words Zola uttered.

"You know what to do," he said, clearly addressing the black robot soldier, before I heard footsteps that distanced themselves from this room. I felt panic enter my mind again, making my blood run cold and my breathing get funny.

Then, I felt nothing but pain and I was out cold again.

* * *

 **2015.**

" _On your left_!"

Those exact words were yelled, and I barely had time to dodge the oncoming blow, watching the burly fist pass by my head and make a whizzing noise.

Ha. Joke's on him. He missed.

I turned around and glared at the man towering above me, giving me a half-glare. But instead of even trying to give some sassy retort to him, I moved like lightning and delivered a blow to his throat, sending him stumbling backwards as he gasped for air. In some wicked sensation, I actually grinned like the Cheshire Cat, grey eyes gleaming in the one, filthy light above us.

People were cheering. Well, of course they were. Who _wouldn't_ want to see this fight between one of the most intimidating people here, Razor (who was known for his incredible uppercut — I learned that the hard way when I first met him) and Glitch, which would be me—

Yes, I adapted a new nickname. I'll… try explaining it later.

As quickly as I'd landed that punch, I hoisted myself up on his shoulders and twisted my legs, flipping over and landing on my feet — Razor landing straight on his back.

"Look how she landed him on his ass," one guy snickered, and by how Razor had furrowed his brows, he knew who that was. Whoops. That guy was gonna get his ass beaten once this was over.

Deciding to top off that cake, I knelt over Razor and punched him in the face, exactly where I knew it would be most painful to him. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times. Five times. Six times.

The crowd was silent for a moment, and I got to my feet in a cautious fashion, balling my fists and readying my stance in case Razor would make a comeback. The seconds ticked by, and everyone held their breaths in anticipation.

… Nothing happened.

The crowd erupted in cheers and I wiped my face, ignoring the bloody nose I was currently sporting and pushing my ash blonde hair back into my ponytail. Razor was on the ground, but he grinned and said, "I'm gonna miss you kid," as he finally began standing up.

"I'll miss you too, Raze," I replied as I brushed the dust off my clothes, smirking at him and nodding. He nodded back in respect, and I turned and pushed through the crowd of people, mostly men.

Within minutes, I was out. And, you know, that might buy me some time to explain all this.

My name is still Dorothy Galloway, and I was still born on the 10th of August, 1920. I still lived in the 1940s with Steven Grant Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes, who are most likely dead now (I wouldn't know — I've been sort of inactive as to their whereabouts), being their third best friend (and also the third wheel). I hadn't changed hair nor eye colour, so I guess that was the same, too.

Now, onto the large list of new flaws and differences.

Due to a misunderstanding, me not having an alibi _or_ an identification to prove who I really was (pretty sure I can't show my birth certificates, anyway — it'd just be a cultural shock and humanity is already messed up as it is), I landed a spot in prison for four years. Yes, it's shocking; little Dorothy from the 1940s lands a spot in prison due to her being a homeless idiot and refusing to reveal that she's pushing towards the age of 100 years. I know, it sucks.

Other things include me being sneaky and quick on my feet (thus running like an antelope at times), me having a habit of being ruthless while fighting (might as well add; I am rather skilled (not) in different forms of combat, explaining me being able to knock out a 240 pound guy while being at a solid 125 pounds), and me being a loner.

I'd developed the habit of being all alone when I had time to think — and when I'd tried to survive on the ruthless streets of Washington D.C. When I'd laid in what I'd call a 'bed' (sure, Dory — but a piece of cardboard and an old sleeping bag don't necessarily count as a bed), I'd think about all the past events — well, what I could remember.

You see, I can't remember much. I remember some blurry face that I used to call Stevie and some burry brunet boy's face that I used to call Bucky. I can't exactly remember what they look like, but I do know that they were my best friends several decades ago, and then… then…

Then there was usually darkness and cold thoughts and shivers that crept down my neck. Nothing but hollowness. Then… I usually remembered nothing but tidbits that would come to me while I'm sleeping. At first, these nightmares — _memories_ , I reminded myself — would make me scream, get me noticed and beaten up by guys that were tougher than I was.

Eventually, I quit screaming and decided to sob into the fabric of the old sleeping bag instead, tears streaming down my face as I orientated myself by the strong smell of smoke, the dark, endless sky above me and the cold bricks of buildings I sheltered next to.

What I know from my current life is that it's unpleasant, morbid and a bitch to pay off alone.

But… in some way, it fit me, being alone. It was like instead of being a third wheel, all I needed to do was be alone — like I deserved to be.

 _Wow, Glitch. Turning really bitter there._

 _So what?_

I didn't bring any personal belongings out of prison. All I wore was a ratty flannel, a black tank top and a pair of worn, denim jeans. My hair was tugged back into a ponytail, straight ash blonde hair looking like it did at least seven decades ago. My grey eyes were a bit duller than those times, though, but hey… they were still the same colour, so I couldn't care less. My lips were still part-blossom-shaped and bright pink, like I'd been eating a pink lollipop. My complexion was a tad paler than before, due to me not being outside much. I preferred being inside, spending my days dreaming and thinking and reminiscing, trying to put a face to the mystery boys in my mind, Bucky and Steve.

Walking away from the prison, I sighed as I realised that, once again, I had nowhere to go. Would I just go back to my sad life of homelessness? Would Glitch just constantly be out of place in this vast world, where nothing could contain a glitch like me?

… Who knows. I mean, I could find my place in some alley when I'm dead, but I'm gonna quit being morbid and not think about that now.

As I was saying, I was minding my own (sad and memoryless) business and walking through the parking lot of the prison and trying to formulate a plan as to what I'd do next when I noticed _them_.

They were subtle, I'll give them that. But with cunning eyes like mine, I still spotted them. One-nil for Glitch.

It was a small group of people, pretty much all of them wearing black clothes, some of the men wearing black tuxes. Pretty much all of them wore black sunglasses and they all stood next to three black vans.

Listen, I don't know about you, but I've heard of 'stranger danger' before. So yes, this was mildly terrifying, considering I could feel their eyes on me. They were watching me like hawks, and I straightened a little bit as I kept walking, my ice-cold determination keeping me walking.

But whether I was walking at that point or not, it was pointless. These weirdos were interested in me, and I could hear their footsteps behind me. With a classy hint of subtlety, I picked up my gait and kept walking, my hair being caressed by the cool July breeze.

"Miss… Dorothy? We would like to ask you a few questions," the first voice said. _Male, around his 40s maybe_ , my mind analysed as my walk instinctively slowed. But then, I internally chastised myself and stubbornly told myself that _no, I don't need to listen to anyone but myself_.

But… how do they know my name?

A small ting of recognition snapped through me. The white tile room. A cold sensation. Pain. Pain. Pain.

" _Failure will not be an option for you_."

A shudder passed through me as I shut my eyes with patience, trying to calm my thoughts. _Can it, Glitch_ , my internal monologue whispered. _We'll just deal with the fact that pretty much everyone knows your damn name_.

As much as I told myself to cool down and stay collected with my thoughts, I couldn't help but worry that these people were from the same… _organisation_ as all those decades ago. The thought almost made me sick on the spot. But I needed to stay strong. If I waited long enough for these people to let their guard down, I could knock them all silly and run. Run as far as possible.

So eventually, I slowed my pace to a halt and retorted with a raspy voice and caution in my tone, "I will neither deny not confirm any questions until you tell me who you are and what you want from me."

Even though I said so, I did not turn around to face these people. They could ask away, but I would refuse to face them like the coward I was. Big deal. They probably already know what I look like, anyway.

"My name is Agent Phil Coulson, and I'm from S.H.I.E.L.D," the first voice — Coulson — replied calmly. Well, at least I have a name to watch out for now. "I must say, it is truly an honour to meet you in person, Miss Galloway. Your story is a rather interesting one, and I know a few friends of mine who would be pleased with meeting you, too."

I didn't respond, but tilted my head a bit to the side, just so I could see the man out of my peripheral vision. He _was_ middle-aged (yay, my guess was correct) and donned a pair of sleek sunglasses so I couldn't tell where he was looking.

But… how did he know about any story of mine? I was a ghost. I glitch in this world and the past world, too.

Phil (God, should I call him Phil or Coulson? Or Agent? Why did this guy even have so many names) continued, "We have been looking for you for quite a while. It took a lot of work to find your whereabout, much less whether you were still even alive."

I furrowed my brows. These guys were _looking_ for me?

Okay, nope. These are definitely the people from the last organisation I'd been captured by. Although, I'm pretty sure they changed names…

After a pause where, once again, I said nothing, Coulson (screw it, I'm gonna call him Coulson from now on) concluded, "I know this must be tough to take in right now. But we're gonna need you to come with us for your safety—"

"Safety my old ass," I whispered out through gritted teeth, before moving at a lighting pace and kicking this 'Phil' guy right into his side, sending him sprawling backwards (whoops. I should probably feel sorry, but I _am_ sort of trying to get away from people trying to capture me _again_ , so I'll just save those apologies for later). The other people, who were still by the vans, witnessed this and began running after me. But they clearly had no idea who on Earth they were dealing with.

If I'd gotten out of that hellhole once, I'll escape their clutches again. I'm most definitely _not_ letting myself get dragged back into a prison cell for more nightmares. Sorry, nope, not on my schedule.

Turning on the heel of my black vans (I'd stolen them, thanks), I began sprinting at an incredible speed. Looks like me not having any personal belongings from prison was starting to pay off, considering I was now taking step after step, my feet patting the ground like fast punches.

I kept running. And running. And running. And—

And then, someone had caught up with me and tackled me to the ground, sending me vaulting forwards. I hit the asphalt ground, scratching my hands up and groaning in mild pain as my entire body was launched onto the ground.

Hey, it hurt, okay? Let me whine about it, at least.

The person had thick arms, and I struggled as the pinned my legs down. Somehow, I managed to turn my torso and socked the man pinning me down into the chest, making him fall back and loosen his grip on my legs. I writhed out of his grip, and was just about to start running again when the dude pulled some gun-like thing on me and two weird wiry things sprang out, connecting to me—

I felt an electric surge course through my body, the pain making me tear up. Would I have been able to speak at that moment, I would've cursed him, cursed the entire group of them, for doing this to me. But I couldn't do anything but momentarily writhe on the ground before my vision started fading.

The last thing I heard before I completely passed out from that shock was from the guy, remarking, "Well, that's one way to get to know each other."

And then, I heard footsteps and another electric shock, before, once again, I was sent into a dark abyss.

It's like all these people _want_ me to be constantly knocked out. Rude…


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, here's chapter 3 for today, I'll see you all on Sunday! (I swear I didn't mean for that to rhyme lol)**

 **Big thanks to Anna (Guest) for reviewing on chapter 2 and... yeah, just enjoy the story, everyone, and feel free to write a review or favourite this story! Thank you all! :)**

* * *

When I was a bit more conscious than the last time I was heard of, I knew that we were moving. I could tell by the occasional jolts my strangely comfortable bed-thing did. Were we… in a car?

I—I just remembered what happened. Son of a—

My body jolted again, and I managed to open my eyes this time, brows furrowing at my surroundings. Just as I'd suspected, we were in a car, and I was seated at the complete back of it, stuck with glaring at the back of these people's heads.

It was dark outside, giving away that we had been driving for quite a while. Then again, I got out of prison at around 5 in the afternoon (or evening? I heard some people call it 'prevening', but there's no way in hell I'm using that swanky wish-wash term for a time of the day. Just… no), so this could mean anything.

I rubbed my eyes groggily, trying to identify anyone in the car. For starters, there were… five people, including me, currently in this van. Three people in the back row, two people in the front. I was all alone in the back section, these guys having thought ahead and laid me out onto the leather seats of the van.

I'll have to admit, as stupid as it sounds, these seats are really comfy. If I ever get the chance to boy myself a bed (I'd have to even have a job for that in the first place, so… not happening in the foreseeable future), it'll probably be made of car seats.

Yes, I know. You thought it was impossible for me to get any weirder. Well, you thought wrong.

I thought I was at peace and no one knew I was awake (yet) when the guy that tackled me before said, "Rise and shine."

I resisted rolling my eyes, instead glaring into the back of his head. He let out a small chuckle and then tilted his head slightly to the side, causing me to relent in my ice-cold glare (I had perfected that glare ever since I began fighting back on both the streets and prison). He then continued, "Boss won't tell me your real name and I refuse to come up with a nickname for you just yet, so… care in telling me your name?"

Without missing a beat and with an edge of defiance in my voice, I said, "Glitch."

The guy turned around fully this time, narrowing his eyes at me. This gave me an opportunity to look at them man (although the lighting wasn't the best, I'll take whatever opportunity I get) properly for the first time. He had blondish-brown hair cut up and styled like most men had it these days (ugh, modern fashion was so bright and confusing. Crop top sweaters? Really? What's the point of them if your midriff is still exposed, anyway?), greenish-blue eyes and a strong jaw. His eyes looked like, as bright as they were, they hid some dark moments of his life, and that his age has given him experience like no one.

Those eyes… in some weird, twisted way, I felt like they resembled mine a bit. (Other than me being probably decades older than this guy, but you get the point.)

After a moment of scrutinising me, he replied — with incredulity in his voice, "Your name— it's _Glitch_?"

"It's what I go by these days," I muttered absentmindedly, ignoring the look of slight humour he shot me. Honestly, I couldn't tell what's worse — admitting that I'm basically named after _The Wizard Of Oz_ , or just calling myself Glitch; a name that I only got because of my strangely quick fighting skills. I figured unless the Coulson dude (whom I assumed to be the 'Boss' this random man was referring to) told this guy that my name was actually Dorothy, he'd just keep calling me Glitch. I had no problems with that.

I didn't like my past life, anyway.

The man let out a short laugh. " _These days_? My God, teenagers are weird."

"I—" I let out a scoff of anger, in disbelief that this Coulson dude apparently didn't let sassy guy over here know that I was probably a century old by now. So, uh, he should probably keep his sassy mouth shut. I retorted, "I'm _not_ a teenager!"

The man let out a laugh. The agent next to him let out a sigh, and I felt tempted to glare at that other agent too now. Gosh, people from the future can never mind their own business, can they? Then, the man replied, jokey edge to his voice, "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

"Barton, if you're done acting like a child with our _guest_ ," a voice — I recognise that voice, that's, uh, Coulson, right? — reprimanded from the front of the car. "You can shut up now. We'll be at our destination soon, anyway."

"But Sir, she said her name is Glitch," Clint smirked at me, and I couldn't even restrain myself from rolling my eyes this time. Was he… _mocking_ me? If I could just go and sock him in the head, that'd teach him—

I tried moving my arms, but I heard a rattling noise instead. Glimpsing down, I saw that I was wearing a pair of cuffs. And… damn, those are thick cuffs. Like they were meant to restrain someone twice the size of me. Someone like Razor, maybe. Who knows.

Either way, I felt like these people were overkilling this whole kidnapping-situation, but I wasn't about to tell them that. I just wouldn't… how do the people say it these days? Oh, right. I wouldn't 'give them a review on Yelp'. I don't even know what a Yelp is. I just heard it somewhere before, while I was passing a restaurant, I think. Some rich and snotty person was yelling it at the waiter, and I couldn't help but overhear it. I'd been so confused by the term that I literally stopped to talk to one of the waiters from the restaurant and ask them what a 'Yelp' is.

(If you wanna know what happened, the waiter shooed me out like a dog. He almost became hysterical. I did not return to that restaurant ever, and I agreed with that angry snotty person saying they wouldn't 'give a review on Yelp'. Honestly, if these waiters there are that hysterical, I wasn't even mad at that rich person.)

 _Going off track, Glitch._

 _Right, right._

I heard Coulson sigh deeply, and then he said, "Just… her name's Dorothy, okay? If she keeps calling herself Glitch, just let her call herself that."

I don't know what I should be more offended at — the fact that this guy just randomly gives my name away like some pathetic flyer boy (I avoided those like the plague. Actually, I generally just avoided people on the streets like the plague.), or the fact that dude acts like I'm not even there. Like— like I'm some pathetic child which doesn't know what's going on because it's 'adult stuff'. God, the amount of times I heard that from Steve and Bucky in the past drove me borderline insane. I was genuinely younger than Steve by… like, two years. So 'adult stuff', my silly ass.

The blondish man turned back to me, grinning toothily at me. "So, Dorothy," he said casually, before continuing with the worst joke I've ever heard, "You got a dog called Toto at home?"

Okay, I'm just gonna say it — this guy is lucky that I was chained up like some rabid monster. Because if I weren't, I would definitely hit him in the face. Or, you know, dangled him out of the car by his leg. And my threats are genuine.

(Even though I wasn't gonna vocalise them or else this guy will think I'm even more of a nutcase than before.)

Then, just for the hell of giving this guy a mild scare, I replied back, "Nope, I don't think I have a home in the first place."

Well, the reaction I braced for…

It was a bit different.

He stopped smiling. At all. There was seriousness etched on his face, and his eyes flashed with some hint of a memory. I knew that look because I've donned it so many times. It's when your eyes seem to be focusing on nothing yet everything at the same time. It's when you can see cogs turning and your mind is running at a thousand miles, reliving that exact same moment as you recalled it. You were just a passenger of your mind, watching as you did the same mistakes over and over and were just forced to remember, to watch as you did what you did.

 _Getting deep there, Glitch…_

All of a sudden, the guy held his hand out over the seat, giving me a curt smile that seemed more respectful than the last. "I'm Clint," he said, and in reply, I raised my cuffed hands. He lowered his hand again and then continued, "I'm a part of the Avengers. You might've heard of us, Earth's Mightiest Heroes and all…"

He trailed off. I frowned, realising that I've never actually heard of them. I think once, I vaguely overheard some inmate from prison talk to someone sobbing on the other side, and they mentioned some blur of 'Sokovia' and 'Avengers' and 'army of robots'. But that was all that I caught before some guard yelled at me to keep walking and that no one was visiting me (like always).

That was… actually the only time I heard of them. Other than that, I had not a single clue as to who they are — or _what_ they are — or what they do. This Clint guy (glad I can put a name to the face — now I just hope that I remember the name for future references) seemed to make them sound like they were a big deal. However, as hard as I scavenged my mind to find anything on them, I had no idea who they were.

I could tell that he could see the confusion in my eyes, because he jokily said, "What, you don't know them…?"

I shook my head, brows furrowing as he frowned at me. Were these 'Avengers' really that big of a deal? Because I had no clue.  
"Damn, you really don't know them, do you?" Clint sighed, and I felt like I could scream out of frustration. If he could just _explain_ , maybe I'd have a clue or something, or if at least get the gist of who these seemingly-formidable people were, I… I don't know.

"Wow, I mean, that sucks," Clint continued, running a hand through his spiky hair. "You must've been in prison for a long time. Didn't you have any relatives come visit you to update you on these sorts of things?"

I felt a slight ache in my heart. My relatives were dead before I was even captured, but then… I'd sort of relied on Steve and Bucky as my 'relatives'. They were the ones who were there for me (sort of), but now… they were both probably in peace somewhere, either dead or in one of those nursing homes. Either way… I'd probably never see them again.

If only…

No. No, no, nopity nope. I was _not_ gonna ask these guys to drive me to Steve and Bucky. The day I ever got to see Steve and Bucky again (translation; _never_ ) was the day I'd force myself to… go swimming.

Yes, I know. All of you are probably really confused at the girl with collarbone-length ash-blonde hair because _did she just say she'd force herself to go swimming_?

… Well, yes. I'm gonna be honest — I don't really like swimming. I'm just not really a fan of being anywhere other than with my feet on dry land, so flying or swimming or the like just made me feel… weird. I know it's weird and all, but that's just how I felt about swimming.

Also, I'm too lanky for any swimsuits. Also, I've seen swimsuits of this generation and I've gotta say, those swimsuits cover _nothing_. You might as well just wear a leaf of a palm tree, because even _that_ has a greater chance of covering… all that.

When I realised that I had yet to answer Clint's question, I blinked and replied with a far more controlled and calm voice than I expected, "All my friends and relatives are dead."

Haha, yes. Queue the morbid Dorothy entering the scene, making Clint wince a slight bit. Okay, I'll give this one to him; that was probably a really sad answer and made me sound like some weird, (very) insane ass-kicker who had a depressive life in prison. All in all, it wasn't exactly the answer that most people heard a lot, so I guess that this reaction was normal.

"I—I'm sorry," Clint muttered, eyes cast down. The car did a turn to the right, and I toppled a slight bit, then sighed when I realised I wasn't even buckled into the car properly. I mean, had the car braked and I'd have been launched forward instead, I'd probably fly through the window like a missile. God, road safety was so confusing. I focused back on Clint, and he rubbed his neck as he replied, "I know what that feels like… feeling like you have no place in the world."

Well, hit me twice with a rubber duck. That was _spot-on_. I'm serious, that is genuinely how I felt a lot of the time (though, that might have to do with the fact that I was meant to be at the age of around twenty years _seventy years ago_ , but, as the cool kids these days say, 'whatever').

I felt… lost yet found at the same time. Like I was where I belonged, yet I couldn't be more out of place in the world I currently lived in. And I realised that each passing day that I spent in prison — people would talk about these people whose names I didn't recognise, they'd speak about some 'Tony Stark' ( _Stark_? I just remembered a mild image of some sleazy man called Howard once), or they'd make references that I had no clue about. Each and every day, I couldn't feel more out of place, with my ancient knowledge that rendered me useless in this new, confusing and much to fast world of technology.

Those days, I'd wish that Steve and Bucky were with me. That they were right by my side like a pair of guardian angels, there to joke with me, keep our inside jokes alive and make this world a little less lonely for me. Sometimes, I dreamed that they (especially Steve — crushes never die, do they?) _were_ , in fact, with me in my darkest nights, in those tough times where I was bruising at the ribs after a fight, or longing to be released from my prison sentence.

But no one ever came. And eventually, I learned to accept that.

And now, there's this guy here — Clint, gosh, I need to remember his name because he sounds like he's genuinely gonna stick around for a while — who's a little more down-to-earth. He listened, and joked yet understood where I was coming from. He was like the nurturing uncle I never had, my uncles having been taken from the first world war our country was doomed by. So as strange as it felt… it was nice to meet Clint. Even if he tackled me to the ground and then kept electrocuting me with this weird gun-thing.

"You know," he cut off my thoughts, causing me to meet his eyes with my stormy grey ones again, "I feel like I have a few friends you might like. They're a bit… uh, distant at times, but they'll know how you feel."

"Of course they will," Coulson called from the front, while keeping his eyes on the road. "They're basically friends already."

Wow, uh, alright then. That sounded rather cryptic and vague, but I shouldn't make too big of a bother of it. Even though… this Coulson guy is more mystic and vague than Mr Johnson from the first floor of my apartment complex. That guy was… bonkers. Well, as far as I remembered.

Suddenly, the car stopped moving and Clint gave me a short, genuine grin before announcing, "We're here, Glitch. Y'know, I'm just gonna keep calling you that."

I nodded, a small hint of a smile ghosting over my lips. Yet it faded as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold frown instead. You know, so I'd look at least _somewhat_ intimidating. Because let's face it, my 5'5" and a half height won't really give off the vibe _stay away from me_. I don't know why I constantly did that frown — I supposed it was just an instinct that I'd built up because I figured no one really liked me, anyway.

The van doors opened, and Clint pulled the seat up so I could be let out, and I hopped out, although reluctantly. Goodbye, comfortable car seats. I'll remember you by buying a bed made out of you (I _really_ need to let that plan go. For all I knew, these people could be kidnapping me to do… God-knows-what with me). I scanned my surroundings, looking at where we were — ahead of us were these strange window-things, tilted slightly. Light illuminated what was inside; a white, empty hallway.

Okay, that terrified me a bit and reminded me of… never mind (however, I did feel a cold pit forming in my stomach at all those white tiles I'd unwillingly seen in my life, reminding me of this).

Around us was grass, only mildly illuminated by the lights from the hallway. Other than that, it was completely dark anywhere but the window and—

And a breathtakingly large building on slightly raised ground.

One side of it was made completely of glass, however the rest was made of some strange grey-ish panels that looked modern, I suppose. To me, it just looked weird, like, why were some panels a darker grey than others? What was the sense of that?

Plastered on the weird grey side of the lot, at the top right bit, was a large 'A'. It looked like a symbol— no, a logo. Aren't they the same thing in some way? I don't know, I was never really great at my… symbolism-study-things and stuff. If I looked a slight bit to the right, I could see a pair of jets. Wow, those sure looked different to the 40s. Bucky and Stevie would've loved this—

Okay, no. No, no, no. I was _not_ bringing back bad memories to ruin the mood right now. I needed to forget I ever mentioned any names.

(Yes, I realise I'm coping with their deaths the worst way possible. Maybe I'm a twat, but I just couldn't handle the overwhelming emotions when I think of Steve.)

Clint, a few heavily-armoured agents and I were the only people that exited the van. The Coulson guy stayed inside. But… why? What was he gonna do—

Clint slammed the van door shut, and gave a small salute to the van. Said van did a small turn, then began driving back down the cobblestone-road that we probably came from.

Well, crap. Now I was stuck here with these clowns.

I know, I said that Clint was a pretty cool guy. That doesn't mean I trust him, though. I've learned that I'm better off to not trust anyone — all it's done for me so far is that it's gotten me in sticky situations.

Clint gave me a tilted smirk, and then said, "Follow me, Glitch."

We began walking, two of the guards walking next to me. Oh, please. What was I gonna do? Hit them _while_ I was wearing shackles?… Although, that did seem like a pretty good and effective idea—

 _Shut up, Glitch. You're gonna make yourself look like a complete psychopath if you haven't already._

Clint entered through the open doors, thus making us all enter the white hallway. I felt shivers creep down my spine and the _real_ shock hit me. Oh no. I hated this feeling so much. It was like all your bones locked up, your entire body shut down and all you could do was sit and watch as you were drowned in a flood of panic on conflicting emotions.

That's exactly how I felt right now, my breathing getting short and funny and my vision turning into a tunnel. My heart beat erratically in my chest and my stomach began swirling with an uncomfortable feeling. It felt terrifying.

 _I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die_. The mantra kept repeating itself in my head, making me more afraid than ever. I couldn't even scream. All that came out was a strangled whisper of 'help' before I realised that I'd crashed to the ground, body shaking and my breaths coming in short, weak huffs.

I couldn't even register Clint having knelt down next to me, trying to shake me out of my endless daze of terror. All I heard from him was a yell that seemed like it was ten thousand miles, a yell that called, " _Someone help us_!"

Suddenly, I felt something stop in my mind.

It was like everything froze. Hell, maybe everything _did_ freeze. But all I knew was that there was something there, whispering, " _Please. Stay calm. This won't hurt a bit_."

And then, there was an eerie calm in my mind, like someone had erased all the panic from my conscious. Instead, I saw… red strings. They looked like strings at first, but then, I saw that they were really wisps of magic. Was I… imagining all of this? If so, I have a strangely _vivid_ imagination (and definitely a messed up one).

Before I could even reach for the red tendrils of power, they were gone and I was tossed back into reality.

My breathing was even again. My haze of fear had been terminated as if it had never been there, and I was met face-to-face with the ground, wisps of my ash hair in my view. Oh, right. I was facing the floor and just realised I was crouched down onto the floor, like I was trying to… hide myself? I wonder when I'd done that before— No, let's not dig into that for now.

God, I'm such a drama queen. Humanity doesn't deserve to put up with me. Or do I not deserve to put up with humanity? I don't know, either of those two.

Finally summoning the courage to look up again, my grey eyes met the radiant brown ones of a young woman with a round face and a gentle smile gracing her lips. I was slightly taken aback for a moment, but then immediately saw in her eyes that she was of good nature. She was good. I could… I could trust that she won't be the one to kill me here.

She brushed her long, brown hair behind her shoulder, before asking in a thick accent, "Are you okay?"

I felt myself nod, numb fingers wriggling in the thick cuffs I donned. She gave me a soft, calm smile and stood, giving me a hand in standing up (which, you know, is sort of tough to do when your hands are chained like you're some indestructible force of nature or something). I whispered a small, "Thanks," and she nodded as well, turning to Clint.

"I take you have yet to tell Stark and the others?" She inquired. _Stark_? Was she trying to imply that Howard Stark was still _alive_? Or did she mean… that Tony Stark dude lots of people talked about in prison?

Who knows. Only time would tell.

Clint nodded, a small hint of a smirk tracing his lips. Then, he turned to me, giving me a once-over to make sure I wouldn't fall into any more hysteria than I already did. Honestly, I couldn't even be mad at him. I felt so emotionally drained that I think the only thing that could genuinely shock me today was if I saw Steve or Bucky in the flesh, breathing and alive, right in front of my eyes.

… Right. I should probably not be too shocked for however-long I might stay up.

The brunette girl (she's actually rather pretty— man, I need to quit comparing myself to others. Was it a bad habit I'd developed over the years? Probably, yeah. Ha, whoops. Add that to my list of bad habits, I guess.) turned around and began walking beside Clint, chatting quietly with him.

It raised a lot of questions in me. Was she Clint's… daughter? As close as they acted, they didn't really look much alike, so I guess the answer to my question was no. Also, was she an Avenger, too? Just like Clint had mentioned them? I mean, I barely had a clue who these Avenger-people were other than the vague bit of them being 'Earth's Mightiest Heroes'. Then again, that phrase could mean _anything_. For all I know, they could be 'Earth's Mightiest Heroes' because they were all pizza delivery people who made amazing pizza and were considered 'heroes' because, I kid you not, pizza is a blessing to the world, so I can't blame people for calling them 'Earth's Mightiest Heroes' if that was the case.

We kept walking, the guards next to me holding some form of guns. I could hardly see the guards' faces, but I assumed that their faces were serious under those half-masks. That made me wonder, did these guys practise their scowls in the mirror? Did they just… take five to ten minutes off before they went to bed and stood in front of the mirrors, scowling at their reflections before some concerned friend or family member escorted them to bed? Who knows. Their secrets were not mine to explore… yet it sounded like a fun idea, anyway.

Finally, Clint turned left into a doorway, the doors sliding open automatically. I know I'd seen it before, but it impressed me every time I witnessed it. Doors opening through sensors and technology? I mean, that sounds pretty dang awesome.

But imagine having these when the electricity went down, though. You'd be running around frantically and then _bam_ , you'd run headfirst into one of these babies because _of course_ they didn't work without electricity. Man, if that ever happened, I'd want to take a photograph of it and frame it in an art museum maybe. I'd call it 'Why Sliding Door Things Suck'. Hell, maybe the photo would make a fortune. At least then I could afford a train or something to find Steve and Bucky.

And, of course, buy a bed made out of car seats.

Anyways, we entered through the sliding doors (I was mildly tempted to just stop in between them, but one of the guards shot me a look that suggested that I don't even try it, so I just kept walking and ignored Grumpy Face to my right.) to see a room that was absolutely… holy crap, it was stunning.

It was humongous, larger than any room I've seen in my life (and that's saying something, considering I've been in a prison lot. Not even the common room is as big as this room.) and so modern that I felt like I was in some strange movie. All of the furniture looked so _expensive_ , and I bet that one of those coffee tables was worth my entire old apartment. Like, dang. Who even had this much money?

I've said it once and I'll say it again; the future is _weird_.

Clint and the brunette (actually, everyone except for me) seemed unfazed by the modern setting, looking like they were used to this view, Grumpy Face shoving me forward when I stopped moving and stood there like an idiot, gaping at this place. I was borderline tempted to give him a kick where I know it'll _especially_ hurt, but I know that he's gonna retaliate far worse. I mean, I was in thick, heavy cuffs. What chance did I have against this guy? That's right. None. Keine. Nyet.

Whoa, what even _were_ those languages? Definitely not English, which, the last time I remembered, was the only language I should be able to speak and write. Not… whatever in the everloving heck that was.

We turned right and walked down another, slightly darker corridor. Soon, we all stopped at a slightly-ajar door (I almost ran into the brunette, by the way. Gosh, I would've just melted into the floor in embarrassment.) and Clint gave me a lopsided smirk, a glint in his eyes that revealed that he knew something I didn't. I didn't know whether to be curious or frustrated.

However, my contemplating was cut short when I overheard the conversation coming from the room with the ajar door—

"Don't spangle your stars just yet, Captain. We all know Hawk-guy's gonna find at least something. It's like his specialty or something," the first voice said. It sounded slightly snarky and collected and reminded me a bit of some genius inventor (if you don't know who I'm hinting at here, it's Howard, of course.). Could this possibly be the Tony Stark everyone was talking about while I usually had no idea what was going on?

The second voice replied, nervousness cut in the tone, "I don't know, Tony… he's been gone for almost the entire day. What if— what if it's all been a false lead and we're searching ghost trails?"

Well, for starters, that confirmed that it was indeed Tony Stark who was the first person. Point one to Glitch. But… first off, who's 'Hawk-guy'? Was that referring to Clint? Oh well, who knows.

And second… why did that voice sound awfully familiar and made a swarm of butterflies swirl in my stomach?

Then, a third voice joined in, "Let's just hope that Stark's right. I would hate all our work to be for nothing."

Okay, that voice sounded awfully familiar, too. Yet, no butterflies swarmed around this time, but some form of nostalgic beat thumped in my heart, like I remembered all these voices, like all of this might be somewhat-familiar to me.

Clint interrupted my train of thought (how many times has he done that now?… Honestly, I'm too unbothered and tired to even try and remember) by whispering to me, "You might be tired now, but I have a feeling that this is definitely gonna wake you up."

Then, dude just pushed the door open and walked in casually, spreading his arms out, "Good to see you all too, everyone."

"Clint, you're back," the first voice — Stark — said. "You find anything good?"

I felt my heart thump in my chest like it would spring out of my chest any second now, and my stomach was a confused swirl of excitement and horror. But… why did I feel like some huge bombshell was about to me dropped on me? I'd already said that nothing would faze me tonight—

"I found myself a new friend," Clint joked the guards beginning to walk forward and shoving me behind them. They entered the room, and I was forced to follow. Then, I heard Clint say, "Or, in your cases, an _old_ friend."

Then, the guards moved to the side and I finally got to see the room, heart beating in my ears.

It was a meeting room. I could see that much. But instead of focusing on the details of the room, I focused on the _people_.

I could see an uncanny resemblance of Howard Stark standing right in front of me, and instantly concluded that this must be the Tony Stark I've heard so much about. I could also see Clint, who was leaned back on the desk, arms crossed. But when I glanced to the left of the room, my heart dropped to my shoes. Or maybe it hit the ceiling. Either way, I was convinced I stopped breathing for a moment.

Because right in front of my unbelieving eyes stood two people I didn't think I'd see today — the shocked faces and bodies of James Buchanan Barnes and Steven Grant Rogers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, everyone! I'm back with chapter four today, just as I promised.**

 **Thank you for everyone who has followed/faved this story and/or given a review, I appreciate it heaps. Anyway, enjoy the story! :)**

* * *

It felt like someone had knocked all the air out of me with a bowling ball.

Listen, I know they looked different — Bucky has a freaking _metal arm_?! — but I could recognise their faces anywhere. I knew that pit that formed in my stomach, putting two and two together and realising that _these are the two people I thought were dead_.

And… well, they _should_ be dead by now (no offence). But instead, they stood in front of me, Steve having grown from his measly 5'5" to a height of 6'1" and Bucky having grown out his hair (?!), being as bulky as Steve was (sorry, did my friends swap souls with _brick walls_? What even) and… Yep, as I mentioned, Bucky had a metal arm where his left arm should've been.

I tried getting any words out. To move from where I'd been glued to the ground. But I couldn't. All I could do was hear my heart thump in my ears, my stomach swirl with butterflies and great depths of confusion, and blink at the two men in front of me — my childhood friends.

When nothing came, Bucky suddenly whispered, "D…Dorothy?"

The single name — _my_ name — hit me like a wave, and I felt like I could collapse at any moment. But I didn't. I stood, completely frozen, as my two best friends — whom I thought were dead — gaped at me in absolute shock. I gaped back (wow, _shocking_ — okay, I need to quit pointing out the obvious), still not being able to utter anything in complete fear of me throwing up with all of the emotions that were running me over.

But… that's when the guilt hit me. They didn't know about my past. They didn't know what had happened when little Dory had gone and run off— they didn't know that she'd been knocked out in some random alley in Brooklyn before being taken God-knows-where and beaten, punished, mistreated and told I was worthless. _Worthless. Worthless_. They also didn't know that— that I'd stolen and lied and lived on the streets like the lowlife I am, and they didn't know that I'd been taken into prison to serve my sentence for four years.

They didn't know what a monster I'd become.

If I could've wished for _anything_ at that moment, I would've wished that I could disappear. Run away, try to figure things out, maybe live what was left of my miserable life without having to face all that guilt that I'd pent up over the last four years. Maybe, I'd run to New York, try to find closure with my old home (which probably wasn't there anymore — it's been about seven decades, so they probably tore that building down), try to find closure wishing _myself_ … then, maybe, I could try to meet my best friends' eyes without feeling shame.

Because they were good people. They were people that had a life ahead of them (though I was confused as _hell_ as to how they haven't seemed to age a day — were we all stuck in time or something?), they were souls that were worthy of love. And I… wasn't.

Bucky began walking towards me, looking gentle yet so confused. Each step he took forward I could feel my mind screaming at me to get back from him. This _had_ to be some cruel trick the universe was playing on me. No way were Steve and Bucky alive before my eyes, looking a good age of about twenty-seven when they should be pushing 100s instead.

(Then again, I should be pushing 100s too, but look at me — I've been mistaken for a teenager already.)

Just as Bucky reached out with his right arm, I whispered, "Don't touch me," recoiling from his outstretched hand. I felt a shiver pass down my spine as I saw hurt flash in his eyes, but I couldn't bring myself to keep seeing all the betrayal. I averted my gaze.

"Dory— come on," Bucky pleaded, and I folded further into myself. "Y-you know us. I—I'm your friend… Steve and I are both your friends."

I know he was speaking the undeniable truth. I knew it. But I couldn't bring myself to believe him. I was beyond terrified— and I know that I've been trying to convince myself that _this couldn't be real, this is too good to be true_ , but the horror was slowly starting to fade in that indeed, Bucky and Steve were very much alive and very much the same age as me.

"Um, I hate to interrupt this touching moment," Stark interjected, and I didn't know whether to kill the man or to thank him. "But— is _that_ the Dorothy you guys have been rambling to find information about?"

Bucky's cerulean orbs shot to Stark, and he shot him a look. I felt a wave of shame come over me. Why was I even here? Why were Steve and Bucky trying to find information about me? What was I compared to a bunch of people that were good when I was so… not good?

Okay, I'm not saying that I'm bad. I don't go on a killing spree for fun and then kill a puppy. I haven't achieved that level of low, everyone can calm down now.

I dared to glance over to where Steve stood, clearly shell-shocked to see me. Or maybe disgusted. I'd probably be disgusted to see me, too. And I'm not saying that to be the moodiest twat of the entire building, I'm just saying that because… It is how it is.

Finally, Steve cleared his throat and replied, voice weaker than before, "Uh… well, so we thought."

 _So we thought?_ What the hell was that supposed to mean? That I was somehow _not_ Dorothy Galloway, friend (from the 1940s, at least) of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes? What was he even trying to imply with _so we thought_?

… I'm overthinking this, aren't I?

 _Yes, you are, Glitch._

"Whaddaya mean, so we thought?" Stark inquired, brows furrowing. He was clearly as confused by that statement as I was. I had to admit, it was still weird seeing this guy — after all, he looked so much like Howard Stark that I was afraid that Howard would suddenly burst into the room. But then, he continued, "Is that not that Dorothy girl you've been incessantly talking about for weeks or—"

Steve cut him off with a sharp look, and I felt my blood run cold at that look. Okay, nope. That was _not_ the Steve I knew from the 40s. Instead, that just looked like… an angry (and really bloody muscular and attractive — what on Earth has Steve been up to while I was… gone?) man with Steve's face. Other than that, it didn't remind me of the familiar buzz of comfort I felt when I was around Steve, and honestly… it terrified me what time could do to a person.

Then, the blond man sighed and began, "Stark, I'm gonna need a word with you. _Alone_."

When Bucky shot him a look, Steve sighed and they exchanged some form of communication with looks, and that was the only way I could assure that perhaps, these two men were, in fact, Steve and Bucky. How?— Well, if I remember one thing for certain that I could associate with these two is that sometimes, they exchanged these strange glances that no one would understand. It'd make me feel so out of place.

I know, my entire trust was based of me just dealing with the fact that I'm necessarily a third wheel. Go figure.

Stark frowned, but relented and shot us all a glance. His eyes lingered on me, and he shot me a lopsided smirk. Somehow, I felt like him — and Clint, maybe — were probably the only normal people here. Maybe I was just fooling myself, but those two didn't make a tsunami of shame and discomfort wash over me, the water pulling me in deeper than I wanted to be. But maybe, Stark just had that… aura around him that made him seem like that.

Clint shot me a sympathetic look, then beckoned me and the two guards towards the door. I sighed, my wrists feeling uncomfortable in the shackles and aching to be freed. But I knew that that was unlikely to happen, and I should probably get over it before I started complaining.

(Honestly, these people should award me. I've barely complained in the past few hours, yet I was getting disbelieving looks from long-lost friends and pissed-off guards were shooting me dirty looks. I mean, that's just rude.)

We walked out of the room, the brunette girl having disappeared from sight. I only just realised how tired I was. Hell, I couldn't even say anything to my friends — even though I'd longed to meet them for so long. But when I did see them, all I could say was a vicious whisper of, " _Don't touch me_." The hurt on Bucky's face had been a quick flash of emotion, but it still stung. God, I'm a horrible friend. No wonder these punks never hung out with me in the 40s — I wouldn't want to hang out with me either.

Turning right, we kept walking down the dark hallway, Clint staring straight ahead. I was still trying to figure him out. As simple as he was, he also seemed complicated. Like, a sense of humour wasn't missing, but then again… he definitely had some dark days behind him. I wondered what they were and if he'd ever tell me. He probably wouldn't.

I mean, I'd probably refuse to tell my sob-story, too. If anyone cared or knew in the first place.

Finally, we arrived at some dimly-lit rooms, and Clint turned around and shot me a pitying look. I'd seen that look before, from Raze when I told him I never got any visitors (he was serving his sentence to go back to a loving wife and son), from Bucky when I wanted to join him and Steve for a game of pool, from Zola— yet the last one had always been a mocking look of pity. That snake never meant it.

I wished I could forget those looks he'd shoot me as I was strapped to a pristine, silver table and stared down upon by people dressed completely white, their faces concealed. But I never could, and I regretted those faces and looks being the first memory I ever got back.

One of the guards shoved me into the room, and I shot him a filthy glare that I was so renowned for. He cocked his gun at me, and I relented, knowing that compliance would have me better off. I was so confused, though— Was I in that old organisation (was their name… HYDRO? HYDRA? Right, I think it was the latter)? Or were these completely different people? Could I even trust anyone here? What if— What if those men in the parking lot had subdued me to drugs and I was hallucinating seeing Steve and Bucky?

All these questions flowed through my mind, and then—

 _Bam_. The door slammed shut behind me, and I flinched to turn around, my shackled hands raised in a defensive position. However, they dropped when I saw the door shut, no one in this room except for me. My eyes widened, and I felt my mouth become chalk-dry.

Frantically looking around the room, I could see that it was a plain room — it had black tiled walls, a grey tiled floor, things like that. A single mattress that was probably meant to serve as bed was in the far back corner— however, that was all that there was here. An empty room and a bed. _Fit for a prisoner._

… I never seem to be able to escape any form of cells, am I?

Bile rose in my throat as I heard Clint over a loudspeaker. My eyes frantically searched the room for the source of the voice when he said, " _Sorry we had to put you in there. It'll just— It'll take a while before we decide what to do with you. Just… don't try to kill yourself._ "

And then, the speaker disconnected.

My vision blurred with tears as I glanced up at the dim lighting of the room. There were no windows. Hell, I got better treatment in _jail_ than this load of bullshit. I realised that I was _trapped_ in here, trapped like I was trapped before I saw Zola's face and the masked guard's face, the one who backhanded me—

I took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to restrain the sob that was building up inside my throat, knowing that me passing out because I was so afraid wouldn't help me in this situation. I calmed… but it didn't help the fact that if I _hadn't_ been drugged, my childhood friends literally agreed to locking me up in a cell fit for… for some delinquent who'd gone on a killing spree.

Okay, maybe I'd probably killed a few people in the past (those memories were still foggy). But, um, like I said… I'm not some psychopath.

(Although when I roundhouse kick a 'S.H.I.E.L.D.' agent into the side and socked a guy into a chest as I tried running away from them, I can give off that vibe sometimes.)

But the more I gaped at the prison's blank tiles, the more fear crept into my mind. No, it wasn't the clean, white tiles that were occasionally splattered with blood from my time in HYDRA, but they were still… strange to see. I could feel my system kicking into overdrive, and if I could've, I would've turned back time to when I was still in prison (as lonely as I was there). To when none of this had happened.

Eventually, I found the numb strength within me to stumble over to my half-bed, plopping down and dropping my cuffed hands while I was at it. They hit the ground with a _thunk_ , and I winced a bit when I saw a small dent in the tiled floor. Whoops. Oh well. Then, I dragged myself across the length of the bed, lips still numb and mind still buzzing with static — and perhaps more fear.

They didn't even give me a blanket. I mean, that's just terrible room service.

Sighing, I felt a tear slip down my cheek and let it drip on the tile floor, lying back down onto the weird half-pillow that felt uncomfortable beneath my head. Then again, I can't really complain about any luxuries, considering I had nothing near this when I was out cold in the streets.

Confusing thoughts swirled in my mind, exhausting me yet keeping me awake. Thoughts about Steve. Thoughts about Bucky. Thoughts about what happened to them. Thoughts about HYDRA—

 _The silver room. It was actually the training room— but it was a ruthless place there._

 _Beating after beating was endured, and then, they'd test my heart rate and tell me defend myself against this. Against that. To fight him, to fight that lion._

 _I'd sob my way through each battle, fists shakily raised and tears flowing freely. The voice would croon through the speaker, "Failure is not an option."_

 _Failure is not an option. Failure is not an option. I'd repeat that mantra as I failed to kill the lion and feel an agonising electroshock pass through my body, temporarily paralysing me. Then, the voice would snarl at me to get up again, and I'd have to. Over and over._

 _Failure is not an option. Failure is not an option._

 _When I finished whatever I was forced to do, they'd test me, inject me with weirdly coloured liquids and glowing bits of bright blue water. Then, they'd strap me down again… and… and…_

 _I'd see a tiled room ahead of me, before there was ice and I was no longer awake, yet not dead._

 _… Death would've been mercy._

I shook myself out the memory, trying to keep the bile from rising and attempting to calm my erratic breaths. _Memory. Memory. Not real_. I shook in the bed, the chains on my thick cuffs rattling and my teeth chattering as if I were freezing. But I wasn't freezing. My blood was boiling, my mind was self-destructing, nothing was cold. Yet it felt cold, anyway.

I slept very little and with an eye open that night. And whenever I didn't sleep, I'd sob into the thin material of the half-bed, trying to stay quiet.

* * *

I was already awake when someone slammed on the metal door.

I flinched, anyway, not used to hearing anything. Over the time I was meant to be asleep, it was deathly quiet. Nothing except a few sniffles of mine could be heard, and I felt like I was disturbing a ghost through my crying. And I had no idea how much time had passed, but clearly enough for it to be time for someone to slam their fists on the door leading to me.

Cowering in the corner of the half-bed, I glared at the metal door that reminded me so much of my first time with HYDRA, pretending that my eyes weren't puffy and red from crying through at least half of my supposed sleeping time.

Then, the metal door swung open slowly, and I held my cuffed hands in front of my face — as if that could hide me from whoever was at the other side of the door. The door finally was fully open, and I came face-to-face with one of the guards. By the way he _wasn't_ glaring at me, it probably wasn't Grumpy Face. I didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified at that fact.

He glanced at me and then announced, "Stark and the others wanted to talk with you again."

I nodded cautiously, trying my best to look as distanced as possible. I bet I looked horrible. My eyes probably _were_ red from crying, and my hair probably looked like a hurricane went through it. My clothes were dishevelled, and I probably looked like some crackhead from some back alley. However, this guard didn't exactly seemed to care and stared at me expectantly instead.

Getting the idea, I stood on shaky feet, my exhaustion weighing down on me. Sleep deprivation… not something to _sleep_ on, eh? Eh?

… Okay, I should stop making pathetic jokes now. This is seriously not helping anyone.

I followed the guard outside of the weird prison-room and we walked down the same hallway. Sunlight streamed through the hallways made of window, illuminating the building different compared to last night. But… I sort of recognised this hallway. Uh, a bit.

Finally, we reached that same conference room again. How did I recognise it? Well, probably because the door was ajar once _again_ and I (once again) caught a snippet of a rushed argument between… I think the brunette and Stark.

"You _locked_ her up?" Wanda yelled, the edge in her voice furious. I raised an eyebrow at this, guessing that they were probably talking about me.

"We can't trust her yet," Stark countered tiredly. Okay, now they were definitely talking about me. "I mean, she just shows up out of nowhere—"

"That girl is _traumatised_ ," Wanda retorted, voice sounding desperate. I felt my ears flare up about the way they were talking about me. "You have done _nothing_ to help her except to traumatise her even more."

Then, Wanda shoved out of the room, giving me a flitting, but sad glance. Like she understood how I felt. Hmm… I wonder if she did. Maybe one day (if I stick around to live long enough), I might ask her about it. But for now… I'll just… mind my own business, I guess.

The guard ushered me inside, and just as I stumbled in, he shut and locked the door behind me, leaving me alone in the room with…

Well, for starters (just like I suspected), Stark was there. Then, there were also Steve and Bucky, Steve gazing at me intensely while Bucky just seemed in thought. I stood there awkwardly, looking at the three men sitting down.

Tony interrupted this moment by beginning, "Please, take a seat, I need to scan your vitals anyway."

I followed his orders with caution, wondering what he meant with 'vitals'. However, I obliged, taking a seat in one of the massive chairs at the table a few seats away from Stark. The huge seats almost swallowed my small form, making me feel like I was an ant. Steve and Bucky, on the other hand, looked like they fit the chairs perfectly. Huh.

"So," Stark began, sensing the awkwardness hanging in the air. There was so much tension that it was palpable, and Stark ran a hand through his dark brown hair and sighed. "Did you sleep well?"

The question was directed at me— but it was a really awkward attempt at making small talk. Out of habit, I blankly replied, "Just fine, thanks."

I know. _Thanks_. Next thing you know, I'll be drinking tea with the Queen because I'm so polite.

 _Yeah, right, Glitch._

Stark saw the half-empty look on my face, and did something strange to follow his analysing of me.

He asked, "FRIDAY, how did the lovely Dorothy Galloway sleep on this fine night?"

Suddenly, a robotic voice replied to him. I swear, the future is _so strange and complex_. But that smart-ass robot lady exposed me when she announced, "Dorothy Galloway slept for precisely one hour and twenty-nine minutes of the ten hours of sleep she was granted."

I heard a soft sigh from Steve, but I daren't look over to him to see all the disappointment on his face. I knew that if I peeked, I would break down like a dam. Stark shot me a look that said, ' _don't know what you define as 'fine', but this is not it_ ' and then continued, "So how did an almost hundred-year-old gal like you get into prison? Thought you'd be working on your retirement instead."

However funny that old-people-joke may have been in any other situation, this time, it fell flat. I averted my eyes from the table, studying the grey walls of the room instead.

I know, I was being awfully stubborn by holding my silence. But hey— I'm not talking about how I got into prison by not being able to prove that I'm not 'Felicia Baldwingson' because I knew that a) I didn't even know where my birth certificate _is_ by this point and b) I'm not here to give everyone a cultural shock because I'm practically a hundred but look 17 (even though I'm 24, thanks).

When Tony realised he wasn't getting an answer from me, he continued exasperatedly, "Do you have anything to say to this matter? At all?"

I shut my eyes, trying to contain the slight nervousness I was feeling. My voice was eerily calm as I stated, "You locked me in a cell."

"Uh— yeah, we did that," Stark mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. Well, at least he was feeling some remorse for giving me such a scare and making me cry for almost nine hours. I _would_ say that I probably deserved at least some alone time for this, but these guys were clearly not the types that relented like that. So I'd just take what I got. Like some savage beggar.

 _Are you a beggar, Glitch?_

 _Yes. A filthy, filthy beggar._

What surprised me the most, though, was what Steve himself (I know, right? _Steve_ of all people) interjected, "We agreed upon it because we need to figure this situation out. Whether you're not— lying and stuff."

Okay, ouch. Wow. That was harsh. It felt like a slap to the face. And that definitely hurt. My childhood friend — and crush — _Steve_ was talking about them not trusting me when _they're_ the ones who had people electrocute me, _they're_ the ones who dragged me into this mess, _they're_ the ones that locked me in that freaking cell—

A raging fire seemed to be burning in me now, boiling my blood and making my eyes burn with some form of bubbling… _powers_? What—

"And I could be training Wanda to use her powers properly instead of having this meeting right now," Steve finished, a cold edge to his voice. I could not _believe_ the gall Steve had to say those things. I felt angrier and more helpless by the second. Was he genuinely being _serious_?! Was I just nothing to him, a waste of his freaking time—

"I'd like to amend this meeting until later, please," I whispered, tears prickling my eyes. God, I was so emotional yet I hadn't even reconnected with my long-lost best friends yet — if I ever got to do that in the first place. I shoved out of my chair and began walking to the door.

"No," Stark snapped. "We're—we're gonna do this _now_ , whether Rogers likes it or not. Please sit back down, Dorothy—"

"I said," I continued, my voice almost breaking yet somehow calm at the same time, "I'm _done_. You can call me back when _Mr Rogers_ has finished his unfinished business."

My tone was ice-cold and prickling when I said this. _Mr Rogers_. I only called Steve— well, _Steve_ , of course. Never _Mr Rogers_ or anything of the like. It felt… unfamiliar on my tongue. Like something bitter. Like I'd just sucked a lemon. I didn't like the feeling at all. But if my best friend was gonna reject me like some insignificant nuisance taking up his oh-so-precious time, then _so be it_.

Anger fizzed in my heart again, and I swore I heard the wind howl in my ears. Which was strange, considering we were inside right now.

Steve began, suspicious coldness in his voice, "You can't just _leave—_ "

"Oh, like I did seventy years ago?" I asked, my temper rising. It felt like a fire was burning in my mind, but I did nothing to control it. Then I snarled, " _Watch me_."

" _Dory_ —"

" _That's not my name!_ " I yelled, all of the built up anger, all that frustration, all that _betrayal_ finally being let out as I spun on my heel and turned to yell at his dumb and handsome face—

A loud, powerful rush of wind burst from me in silver waves, and it felt like my entire body was being touched by fire. The silver waves of anger _rushed_ forward, cracking the glass in the conference table to tiny little pieces, knocking over spare chair, scattering papers all over. My breath hitched when the three men were launched from their respective chairs, each hitting a different wall in the room. The silver-blue waves kept flying forward as quick as a bullet, causing cracks to appear in the walls and a few bits of the wall to break off.

While all this happened, I'd shielded my face to protect myself from anything flying my way. But it looked like all of the damage happened _around_ me, none of it actually coming even close to me.

With shaking hands, I lifted my arms off my heard, grey eyes frantically glancing through the destroyed room.

Tony was starting to come to, rubbing his head and muttering something inaudible to my ears. There were papers everywhere. My gaze rested upon Bucky and Steve, Bucky trying to brush the dust off his form. Steve, however, gaped at me, baby blue orbs trained at me in what looked like horror to me.

The worst part was that even I, myself, had no idea how it happened or where this came from.


End file.
